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Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2010 with funding from 

Lyrasis IVIembers and Sloan Foundation 

established 1901 

Delaware Valley College of Science and Agriculture 
Doylestown, Pennsylvania 18901 

Spring 1984 




Cammy Alcorn 
Tillie Docalovich 
Linda Hahn 
Paul Luccia 
Nancy Lukert 
Dennis McLaughlin 
Ricinard Rollins 
Jane Smeallie 
Stephanie Smith 
Louann Spiecker 
Mary Ellen Tyson 


Jeppe Christiansen 

Literary Woric 

Cammy Alcorn 
Kim Bradshaw 
Brian Clapp 
Patricia Dannehower 
Tillie Docalovich 
Eileen Geary 
Maribeth Giannone 
Robert D. Hallman 
Lisa C. Merklein 
Nancy Lukert 
Veronica Paris 
Wanda M. Perugini 
Gerald Robbins 
Dan Schwalm 
Eric Lloyd Smith 
Flo Souza 
Carl P. Vivaldi 
Dee Walker 
Dr. Richard C, Ziemer 


Jeppe Christiansen 
Ann Drobner 
Doug Hallman 
George Perry 
Phil Sargent 
Jane Smeallie 
Dana Trumbov\/er 


Barb Brennan 
Jennifer Corrigan 
Linda Hahn 
Michelle Matula 
Gary Mitkowski 
Tess Mowery 
Brian Prickett 
Richard Rollins 
Missy Young 

Jhe Gleaner is a student publication. Those opinions expressed within are not necessarily 
those of The Gleaner staff. Neither the college nor the staff will assume responsibility for 
plagarism unknowingly occuring within. 

The editors and staff would like to express their gratitude to Mr. Douglas Geary, Mr. Robert 
McClelland, and Mr. Edward O'Brien for all their help and support. 


Photo by Philip Sargent 

Sometimes I desperately fight to recapture the past 

Old times, old friends, forgotten moments. 
Other times I yearn to capture the future 

To mold events and channel talents. 
But then my dreams fade and I am faced with today 

Current news, world problems, present events. 

The past is dead — 

bury it and grieve no more. 
The future unborn — 

do not allow it to be premature. 
Today is a growing impressionable child — 

influence it and grow with it. 

Gerald Robbins 

Artwork by Missy Young 


a tear of wax 

an unknown transformation. 

to return 
Under the power 

of the flame. 
The candle weeps 

into darkness. 
A majestic image 

for all. 

Cammy Alcorn 

Photo by Doug Hallman 

Photo by Doug Hallmon 

Those that are few 
such as ourselves 
will always endure 
persevere, and love things 
that are not yet understandable 
to the mind. 

Never fear 

you are the chosen few 

who pose your tenacity 

to survive, 


and be yourselves in the process. 

Eric Lloyd Smith 

e/^for '^<'^€^^ 

Now is the quiet time. Jtiesum^ 
returned to tiie city, the hunters r 
long processions of cars Izzzez 
place my own. At momer-i • e " 
impact tourism tias on a i^ 2 z:- 

My town must Ido typicc : * ' _ ' : 
port, Mossachiusefts, and Z-'-e : 
be ^ocafed wtiere moun"":: - . re 
r _ _:-^r VfefcifotJK c r:e -: e 

. . . wereatt': 

HDiQ County v, e 'e 

"errr z : z e' z of my town, 
: e : fe : e- :— z^tslew} 

T.e' e.e' leir — e' 2 "2 tt .'.'ere or^ 

fmg. In other words, from r^e zez 

"z^'anders r : "^ T ": ^- e ~ : _ " t " : 2 

'•• "" r e' Dovmc z 


ops proSferuted, 

Artwork by Rich Rollins 

Photo by Ann Drobner 

The sun is being raised 
a siglit to be seen 
wrapped in a yellow haze 
are hills of rolling green. 

The sky is crystal clear 
clouds gently floating by 
the sun in its brillance 
shining light from its sky. 

When the sun slowly sets 
the moon is at its full 
bathing the horizon 
with purple, pink, and blue. 

The sky is like a painting 
the artist has done with care 
spreading it over with colors 
that make it beautiful and rare. 

Eileen Geary 


tZ/Pt^ fj/i^ 

Image on the water, 

you know wtiat has to be. 
Don't you ever tell them, 

it's a fading memory. 
With shadows dancing softly, 

in a midnight silhouette. 
There eyes could tell a story, 

that the night would not forget. 
It's crystal clear and shattered, 

as the image slowly fades. 
And nothing else will matter 

. . . yet the memory remains. 
With images crusading, 

fading off into the night, 
They know it's gone forever 

. . . something said it wasn't right. 
To touch upon the water, 

and grasp the memories, 
. , , hurts to listen to their murmer 

as they echo cross the seas. 
And the image on the water 
■ liltmQt fiY^'^ Ul^t ^^ ^I'ttl ^^"^■'^- 


-i^^-ye ■<*( 



Photo by Philip Sargent 

I looked info the mirror 

And for once 

Saw realify 

Sforing bocl< 

Af a plain counfenance. 

I asked If a 


And if answered back 



And ffie frufh 

Did nof hif me 

As fiard as I expecfed 

For if was as I expecfed — 

Deep down. 

Beneafti all ffie fiopes, I'd found 

Tfie core — 

Realify was fhere. 

So I wasn'f disappoinfed 
— Rafher relieved I fhink — 
To know fhaf for once 
There was nof decepfion, 
Thaf I wouldn'f tiave fo worry 
Abouf any illusions. 
Any dreams 
Falling apart 

Wanda M. Perugini 

Artwork by Brian Prickeff 

Faded memories 

destroyed dreams 
All a part of flashing scenes. 
Quickly come 
and slowly go 
Only you and I will know 
Time will heal this hurt and pain 

until then 
Things are the same. 
Try hard not to preserve them friend, 
for faded memories 

in the end 
can only hurt 
and never mend. 

Tillie Docalovich 

Photo by Dana Trumbower 


Photo by Ann Drobner 

Those who walk alone are never lonely when they hear the voices of 
the sea whispering along with the wind, when they see the face of the 
sea smiling back at the day, or when they feel the hand of the sea 
reaching out cool fingers to comfort and caress. 

Veronica Paris 

Artwork by Rich Rollins 

If you see my tears, 
don't be confused: 
for they are my assurance of a 
brig titer tomorrow. 

If you can't tiear my words, 
come listen to ttie 
wtiispers of my tieart: 
for they speak what my mouth is 
afraid to shout. 

If my smile saddens you, 
don't be dismayed: 
for it is not pain it hides, 
only doubt. 

If you see the fear in my eyes, 
look again and 

for it is that fear which makes me 

Dee Walker 

Artwork by Rich Rollins 



I stand before you now 

an enforcer of the throne, 

a protector of the realm, 

a man made of stone. 

Built of SteeL 

never to speak, 

never to feel, 

on his ov\/n . . . 

Just a pawn, 

in a massive game. 

Where death and destruction 

is my claim to fame. 

I'm the Warrior, 

a lord of the ring, 

a victor for the King 

I'm the Warrior. 

The battlefield lays there, 
in shades of red . . . 
filled with the living, 
the lifeless and the dead. 
Where my armor 
becomes my home 
and my sword and I 
become one . . . 
Fighting for the King, 
Fighting for the throne. 
I'm the Warrior, 
a lord of the ring, 
a victor for the King 
I'm the Warrior. 
A champion 
hailed by all 
lowering my blade, 
another victim falls. 
I'm the Warrior, 
that's what I am 
I'm the Warrior, 
Just let me be 
I'm the Warrior, 
Fighting to be Free 
Fighting to be Free. 

Robert D. Hallman 

p'W^" i. 


' 2^ Artwork by Barb Brennan 

Artwork by Mictielle Matula 

Artwork by Gary Mitkowski 

Artwork by Jennifer Corrigan 

As I sat on Grandpa's lap one day, he began to say things that were 
very hard to understand. I was only ten. My thoughts would never stand 
still, especially when he tali<ed about the old times. 

l-ie told me how hard he worked for everything that he and Grandma 
had. I thought they had everything anyone could ever wanti 'Ihey must 
be the happiest people in the world," I would often say to myself 'Til bet 
if I work hard, I'll have everything Just like them!" 

On that particular day. Grandpa wasn't very happy. I sensed a quiver 
in his voice, a shortness of breath, and a feeling of fear. For the first time, 
I really began to listen to the meaning of his words. 

"Son, always take time to do the simple things. Nothing is too trivial for 
you. No one is too unimportant for you. " 

"What do you mean Grandpa?" I looked at his face and a tear began 
to fall from his bloodshot eyes. 

"I never took the time to be with my family and friends. I brushed 
people aside who I felt could never help me in any way. Everyone is 
important son! You must remember that. Share your time with people, 
especially your family. After your friends leave you, your family is all you 
have. I'll be going away soon and I'll never have the time that you have. 
Don't let if slip away. " 

Dan Schwalm 

Photo byJeppe Christiansen 


Artwork by Rich Rollins 

Artwork by Rich Rollins 

W'f' *'' 


Once, two little girls 
On a course of adventure. 
Held tigtit to each othier 
Against ttie winds 
Of the world. 

Crossing streams. 
Climbing mountains. 
Facing lions and witches 

Side by side. 

Hand in hand. 

And then we grew up. 

Now, miles apart 
Fight city crowds — unseeing: 
Stumble rocky paths — unknowing 
What tomorrow brings. 

Loneliness hides behind 

painted smiles. 
Wishing future was past 
And past was present 
I look into the darkness: 

Is that you there? 

Reach out your hand, 

I think I can touch if from here: 

My heart is longer 

Than my arm. 

Wanda M. Perugini 

Talk to me, 

tell me how you feel, 

share your thoughts with me. 

I want to know 

what's going through your mind. 

Don't be afraid 

to share your hopes, your dreams. 

Open up to me, 

I will not laugh, 

I will not make judgements. 

But I will listen, 

to what you are saying, 

and even what you feel you can't say. 

Take off your mask, 

let's end this game of masquerades. 

I've seen many masks, 

the facades we all wear. 

I'm waiting for you, 

so maybe then, 

I too can end my masquerade. 

Nancy Lukert 

Photo byJeppe Christiansen 

J^<A<^ /^^ 

I am the creator of all worlds. 

My pen breattis life Into you. 

What shall I call you, one from myself? 

Perhaps I will call you 

Idea 156 

Helen Sutthill 

Artwork by Michelle Matula 


Photo by George Perry 

Laughter is the music 

Of tlie soul. 
A cry issueing forth 

From the depths of 
your heart. 
Bathing your body 

In a sea of warmth — 
Creating a spark of light 

In the endless tunnel 
Of your spirit: 

Let your soul sing out 

In happiness. 
Let the warmth flow 

Through your limbs. 
Let the light of your spirit 

Burn brightly 
In your eyes 
— And though the world may 

Grow cold. 
And you may grow old. 
May your soul never 

Grow tired 
Of singing. 

Lisa C. Merklein 

* ' ■.^. <^- 

PhOTO by Dana Trumbower 

Identity is linked to several different factors, including a sense of place,- 
of people, of purpose, and of Job or accomplistiment. 

Witt) our increasing mobility in American society, people tiave come to 
expect ctiange as a norm. Coupled with this can be an unsettled feeling 
about who we are or what purpose we will fill/fulfill in life. 

As a youngster growing up in a rural area' in Oregon, I was surrounded 
by my parents, my brothers, half a dozen uncles and aunts, about two 
dozen cousins; and it was handy for me to say, "I'm Fred Ziemer's son or 
George Ziemer's grandson. " That helped me get my checks cashed or 
obtain parts on credit for Grandpa's McCullough chain saw, and it paved 
the way for feeling comfortable in Sandy, Oregon. Just as animals 

develop a sense of place, so did I feel thai fhis little community was a 
tiaven for me. I was more certain of being a Ziemer and being loved 
ttian I had type A blood. 

After going away to college and meeting ttie girl in my freshman year 
who nine years later would be my wife — I'm slow, she says — / uprooted 
and moved to Pennsylvania. It became a routine for me to have to pro- 
duce identity whenever I would cash a check at a place of business. 
Sometimes I knew that this was just a matter of good business practice 
on the part of the proprietor, but at other times I felt irritated and 
unrecognized, often to the point of saying, "I'm Adelle's husband." That 
evoked an alert response: "Oh, do you mean Adelle from the Bakery?" 


"We know her; she's waited on many a customer. Never heard of you 
though. " 

There I was with no clout. I had trumped and with it I could walk out of 
the store with the purchase or with the credit. 

One summer evening after Adelle and I had been married for a few 
weeks, I participated with several members of a church gathering to 
have a clambake and to play Softball. My lack of skills of playing ball 
were readily assessed and I was assigned where leftover players are put 
— the outfield. As the sun sank and the game neared the last inning, a 
forceful batter stepped to the plate and hit the ball with such impact 
that it arced above the pitcher, above the second base player, and on 
out into center field, where I had been occupying space during most of 
the game. With mit in hand and stance poised, I reached for the ball 
and caught it, making the last out of the game, whereupon my father-in- 
law yelled in his stentorian voice, "That's my son-in-law!" Any identity 
problems I had were cured from then on. 

Dr. Richard C. Ziemer 


Photo by Philip Sargent 

tJ^ ty^y^p^^^o:.^ €^ fj/t> 


I listened to the ocean's sound. 
As rolling waves of greenish-blue 
Turned foamy-white with every pound. 
Alone, I sat, and thought of you. 

I watched the gulls above me soar; 
They faded in the fog, and flew 
Along the brisk and misty shore. 
And happily, I thought of you. 

I envied peoole in the sand. 
Who sat or strolled In groups of two. 
They gently clutched the other's hand. 
And wishfully, I thought of you. 

I saw the sun above the bay. 
It turned the sky a fiery hue 
Before retreating with the day. 
And quietly, I thought of you. 

I shivered in the dark of night. 
But then a warmth inside me grew; 
For in my heart, I held you tight. 
And lovingly, I thought of you. 

Jennifer F. Corrigan 

'\ '.^P^ A^^^iT^ifc* j»>«»r.ji- 

Phnfa hv JanaSime^.nlm 

Artwork by Michelle Mafula 

As I reach out for it 

it slips out of my grasp. 

Ttie faster I run towards it 

tine furtlier away it remains. 

It is wt)en . . . 

I am not thiinidng about it 

not running after it 

not pursuing it 

It is ttien 

that it comes to me and rests, 

and sits as peacefully 

as a dove upon my shoulder. 

Nancy Lukert 

This test of time hard to determine 
Ttiis love tiard to define 
Win spoce between breal< us apart 
Or do we grow in ttie passing time 
Ttie space between; dotted witti acquaintance 
Sincerity scarce and tiard to tioid 
Funloving more common and mucti more boid. 
Ttie passing time; in it i remember you 
reality many lacl< 
sincerity some never see 
Ttiis love tiard to define 
tiard to name 
tiard to call 
Necessary to Breaftie . . . 

Patricia Dannel~iower 

Photo by Ann Drobner 

.^vCui - *■• ^' '^?*'5ifc. 

Artwork by Rich Rollins 

Here's to a life 

of an old mountain man 

with wtiom you would have loved to have been 

friends with . . . 

and who you would think had nothing 

but yet he had all he needed. 

For when he woke in the morning 

he would put on his old dilapidated boots, 

tie his decrepit laces, 

and open the creeping door . . . 

The sun's rays would burst info his eyes 

and he could feel the leaves drop on his shoulders. 

He swore to himself that just yesterday 

these leaves were filled with colours and life . . . 

And his legs moved and his feet crushed 

the dark-green grass 
he headed toward those beautiful and 

peaceful, but yet ominous looking mountains, 
for he had fallen in love with their 

upward striving form . . . 

He had a strangely sudden feeling 
that he needed to be in union with them 

This wonderful old man felt a burst of joy 
and his mind felt mellow . . . 

And he lay on the soft ground 

not being able to climb those mountains 

as he had done almost every morning 

and every day in a life. 
His body slept on the ground 

in a leaf-like manner 
seeping with coolness . . . 
And his soul was taken lightly 
upward striving 

with the mountains . . . 

Ann Drobner 

A fhousond smiles to see. 

Look there, through the sunlight. 

See that tree? 

The wind makes the tree chuckle. 

Did it laugh when you were there? 

Did the wind run through your hair. 

Like it does the leaves? 

Did it move your hands. 

The way it moves the branches? 

You said you had to be free. 

But why did you have to 

Hang yourself on our laughing tree? 

Helen Sutthill 

Photo by Doug Bereczki 

f^yuj^^^/ <=^^^ 


I watch you sleep 

And I can't help but admire 

How pretty you are 

Curled in your bed. 

Even though I know 

It's wrong to teel this way, 

I think I've fallen in love 

With you. 

Is it so wrong? 

I would never hurt 

Nor force you into something 

That you didn't want. 

Please don't hate me. 

Don't pass judgement. 

Don't give reasons why 

I feel this way. 

Just accept it, and 

Smile at me 

Every now and then. 

Helen Sutthill 

Artwork by Rich Rollins 

Photo by Cindy Priluker 


€^^l^ iZ^ 


Cold and blustery 

dark and mean 

the hill only a mile away 

start at the bottom 

end at the top 

In between the rocks get harder to climb 

You weaken, slip, recover 

Almost there 

Something frightens you 

Dark, shaped like you 

Is it^a friend; an enemy 

no one knows 

You stumble backwards 

It does too 

It's only your shadow 

Climbing with you. 

Kim Bradshaw 


Photo byJeppe Christiansen 

What con be heard 

of o wondering voice — 
if file words 

foii coioriess upon my ears 

sending nory o fremor 

ftirougtiouf woves of sound, 
and file rusfie of life 

is sfiiied 
by a single, icy breafh? 
I will lisfen 

fa my soul 

as if bursfs forffi in song; 
For ffiis is file voice 

wfiicfi will pierce ffie silence, 
adding color fo 

words uffered in fiasfe 
and soffening 

ftiose f)eld wifhin me. 
l-low will I see 

whicf) paffi I'm fo f ravel — 
If ftie misfs veil 

my sighf 
clouding my visions 

wifhi ffieir opaque breaffi, 
and my eyes are bound 

wifhin robes of shadow 
which permifs no lighf 

fo enfer? 
I will look inward 
unveiling fhe efernal lighf 

which burns 
wifhin me; 

for only this 

will dispel the darkness, 
and send the shadows 

fleeing before me 
clearing the road 

of tomorrow. 
To whom may I reach 

when I capsize in midstream — 
As hope recedes 

from my outstretched hand 
turning away from my pleas 

in silent rebuff le, 
How will I remain afloat 

In an empty sea 
of despair? 
I will grasp 

the limitless strength 
of my spirit: 
For this is my support 

in times of need, 
drawing me ashore, 
reuniting my mind and body 
warming my limbs 

with new visions of hope. 
Oh, where shall I turn 

when confusion sets in — 
forming waves 

pounding upon 
the glimmering shoreline 
of my mind; 
If the relentless 

flow and ebb 

of the fides concealed in my thoughts 


become a painful burden, 
where will I find peace? 
I will turn inward 

calling upon my relentless will; 
for through that power 

I am released, 

free from worry and care; 
I seek strength and wisdom from within 

and tranquility 
is mine. 

Lisa C. Merklein 

The fabric frays 
Around ftie edges 
Thread by fhread 
I come aparf, 
Almosf imperceivably. 

A liffle fear of fhe seams, 
A liffle sfuffing peel<s out 
I fry fa sficl< if back in 
Before anyone sees. 

I can'f mend fhe hole 
Wifhouf needle and fhread; 
Sfaples and glue 
Don'f hold. 

Maybe if I was a 
Everyfhing would be 
A liffle easier. 

Wanda M. Perugini 

Photo by George Perry 

Photo by George Perry 


That uncommon dust 

thot lingers in your life, 
has changed you for the worst, 

I'm sorry to say. 
Behind this mask you hide, 

keeping the "selfish you" inside. 
Fooling everyone you meet: 

But you can't fool me. 
This available omen 

that has you possessed; 
It's an escape from reality. 

Please put it to rest. 
I know how you feel, 

I've been there myself. 
This nonchalan attitude 

gives you more time to spare 
in an endless life of illusions. 

But what do you care? 

Happily content in a world 
of "Sensitive Jeopardy," 

you say you're aware. 
To you my friend, 

I offer a prayer. 
For you're in your own little hell 

"The Best Hell" you explain. 
Just another Self Centered-Sainf 

hooked on cocaine. 

Cammy Alcorn 

There's a light that flickers 

In my soul. 

There's a sun that sets 

In my mind. 

There's a light that shines 

In my life. 

Con't you tell that I'm 

Thinking of you? 

An emotion that flutters. 
Drawn to the flame. 
Sense dawns in darkness, 
Smothered in pain. 
In my mind's eye. 
It's you that I see again. 

Helen Sutthill 

Artwork by Tess Mowery 

Artwork by Linda Hahn 

S^ C^X^<2^^^4^ c=>^S=^^^ 

Lost in confusion 

within myself. 
Wiiot once wos real 

is now illusion. 

At times emotion swells 

to reveal 
A love that has not died but 
A love that is hidden. 

Time has changed us 
others have come between 
only to shadow the feeling 
of what was. 

Seeing you 
Reaching for you but 
now is not the time. 
Pulling away yet 
still holding on to what 
shows in your eyes — 
/ miss you more. 

Maribeth Giannone 




Share your dreams with me. 
My brush 
will enhance their imagery 

Bold, sure strokes 

Lend clarity 
Tender Shadowing 

Adds depth 
Colors blended 
Iridescent in hue 

'Mrbrushed — the breath 

Of life 
Which spawns reality. 
My hands would never leave them 
Or crack 
Or fade to dust 
On and unused pallette, 
— Their oil is far too precious. 

Lisa C. Merklein 

Photo by Dana Trumbower 


Photo by Doug Bereczki 

May you spend your eternity 
In the palm of God's tiand. 
Away from the winds that blow 
To change today into tomorrow. 
Wait for me there. 
In the palm of God's hand. 

Helen Sutthill 

S^ ^Jy^yt?^ «L.y'%2^^ 

/ stepped out of the Tavern into ttie freezing nigtit air. Ttie hieavy door 
ttiudded close behind me, muting ttie frenzied music, i intialed ttie cold 
air deeply, gently, to clear my lungs and tiead. tVly eyes still complained 
of ttie liquid cigarette haze poured into them. 

I stood a minute, pulling on my gloves and adjusting my knit cap. The 
apartment was a scant eight blocks away and I looked forward eagerly 
to the prospect of nine hours sleep. 

My feet led the way across the street and my inebriated body obe- 
diently followed. Turning to the left, I trudged down the avenue behind a 
row of shops and business offices. Tiny mountains and peaks of frozen 
slush crunched noisily under my feet — scaling them wholly preoccupied 
me. The numerous boilermakers I had swallowed affected my equilibrium 
more than expected, and I took notice of the few people wandering this 

I don't know where she came from; I never heard any footsteps. But 
she clutched my arm from behind and startled me so I almost fell. 
Regaining my poise, I turned to face her. 

I beheld an old woman, her frame bent so she came only to my chin. 
The tattered and patched garments she wore gave her the appearance 
of some amorphous pile of rags. A frayed kerchief shadowed her face 
but her eyes perforated the dark, piercing the dark velvet of night. 

She mumbled something. 

A belch brought my hand to my mouth. 'VIease excuse me," I mumbled 
back. "What did you say?" 

She leaned closer, an overwhelming stench of rancid fish rose from her 
clothing. "I've captured time!" she hissed. "I've got it here in my hands." 
Her grin revealed two incomplete rows of chipped yellow teeth. "Oh 
Lord," I thought, leaning back and massaging my eyes with one hand. 
"This poor beggar's had more to drink than I've had." 

I opened my eyes and struggled to focus them on the old woman's 
hands held before my face. She opened those hands slowly, as if a bird 
might suddenly free itself from the darkness. Curiosity got the best of me 
and I peered in. I discovered to my dismay only a pocket watch. But 
what a time worn piece it was! The crystal, spider webbed with cracks, 
barely held mechanism in the battered silver case. 

"I've captured time!" repeated a hiss. 

"Nonsense," I hiccuped. "What you've got there, is an aid pocket- 
watch that even a pawn shop wouldn't consider buying." 

"No! No!" she cried. "Listen! It's ticking!" 

"Pockefwatches have a habit of doing that," I replied. 

"I can make a fortune selling time!" The eyes glistened like a pair of 
beaded jelly fish. 

/ turned away but she grabbed my arm and compelled me to look at 
tier. 'Just imagine! Turn thie hiands on ttiis watcti and you forward tlie 
time to say . . . say your birttiday! You could collect all your presents, give 
ttie tiands a whirl, and poof I It would be your birthday again just a year 
later. " 

"/ think a body would grow old rather quickly doing that," / reflected. 

"Well then," she retorted, "when you got too old you could turn it back 
— turn it back to your younger birthdays. " 

"But then you would be opening presents you opened before," I said, 
"it's no fun opening a present when you already know what's inside." 

The old woman fidgeted. I suspected the cold was getting to her as it 
was to me. "Pooh," she spat suddenly. "Forget this flummery. Do you 
want to buy this timepiece or not?" 

"I never had any intention of buying that piece of scrap," I said 

"Fifty cents and your ballpoint pen." 

I turned and continued homeward. 

"Forty cents," she called after me, "and you can keep the pen." 

My mind was back climbing the Munchkin peaks of crunchy slush. 

"Twenty-five and your shoelaces." 

Then something happened to me, I'm not quite sure . . . as the heavy 
door of the tavern thudded behind me. 


Carl P. Vivaldi 

The grains of sand 

Worn away from fhe 

Lighfhouse sfones 

When the water crashes 

Upon them constantly 

Remind me of my feeiings, 

And my soui. 

And myself when 

People are around constantly. 

Wearing me away. 

Sweeping bits of myself with them 

As they come and go. 

And like the lighthouse 

I am supposed to shine 

Forever. Even when I can 

Barely stand upright. 

Helen Sutthill 

Artwork by Richard Rollins 

Photo by Doug Bereczki 

Photo by Doug Bereczki 


As you sit on the saddle of thie 
rocking bacl< into pain and distress 
forward you thrust into 

the future 
another obstacle 
be gone 
Hold on 

Cammy Alcorn 

Artwork by Michelle Matula 

This is for you 

Ttie person of many virfues. 


And love: 

For common man 

Never look back 

You sweep those along you can. 

Pull those forward that desire. 

Leave those back who are non-achievers, 

Yet, know the difference between 

Those that do, and do not. 

You are the one for me 

Because you will be you 


And distinct from the rest. 

This is for me. 

Eric Smith 


■ ■ "*■ " , ' /':{ 

dt/t^^c^^?^ Kyy^^ 

l/l/e w/ou/d ///ce fo fo/ce f/i/s opportunity to extend our gratitude to all 
ttiose wtio helped create The Gleaner 1984. Wittiout your efforts, none 
of tills would t)ave been possible. 

Being a part of The Gleaner for tine past four years tias been bothi an 
enriching and enlightening experience. We have shared many memor- 
able moments with our staff that will be a part of our college scrapbool< 

For those seniors who have been with us through thick and thin, a 
special thanks and a fond farewell. To those underclassmen who we 
leave behind, we wish you as much luck and success as we have had. 
And, finally, to those faculty members and students who contributed 
their art work, photographs, and literary pieces, YOU are what The 
Gleaner stands for. May you carry on the proud traditions of The 
Gleaner with the enthusiasm and support of the Del-Val Community. 


Wanda Perugini 
Dan Schwalm 

^ % 

Photo by Jeppe Christiansen